


miroirs

by ravels (orphan_account)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, Maurice Ravel - Freeform, Phan - Freeform, Pianist Phil, bad writing dot com, i wrote this after a piano lesson, me growing tired of fics where dan is perfect and good at piano, piano fic, piano student dan, playlist tbm, the french composer dude, too many classical music references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-06 20:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ravels
Summary: piano for dan is a recovered regret, a memory found after years buried in the sand. for phil, piano is a necessity, his life, something as essential as water. for both of them, piano just might be a chance worth taking.updates on fridays.





	1. noctuelles

**Author's Note:**

> _[noctuelles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCmbEIewKYo)_ begins with highly chromatic pianissimo scamperings across the keyboard. the calmer middle section makes use of chordal melodies and a pedal point; this is followed by a return to the introductory material. curiously, despite the chromatic nature of the work, this recapitulation is a fifth below the first entry--exactly what one would expect from bach or mozart.

Dan pulls his hoodie further over his painstakingly straightened hair and forcefully jams his hands into his pockets. He cautiously gropes around for the cord of his earbuds, pulling it up to his ear—

“Daniel!” His mother whispers in harsh reprimand, swatting his knee with a bejeweled hand. In response, Dan drops the cord and grumbles lowly, sinking deeper into the velvet cushion of his seat.

“Dan, you’re nineteen. Behave,” his mother says, tiredly.

The stuffy, bow-tied usher with the handlebar moustache on the end of their row shoots him a dirty look.

“Can I at least have the programme?” Dan whines quietly.

His mother appears to consider him for a moment. She lets out a resigned sigh and hands him the small booklet. He flips through the numerous pages of advertisement to find today’s schedule.

_ Only one piece after this till intermission _ .

_ Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. _

 

_ Fifteen minutes for intermission is far too little _ , Dan internally moans at the start of the second half.

By the time the orchestra begins their tuning, he’s settled himself back into his seat with a pack of Reese’s Pieces from the snack bar and is absently flicking through the ads littered throughout the program.

The conductor, in all his white-haired glory, rises to the podium and the audience falls silent.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” says the conductor into the microphone, baton in hand, “a performance of Ravel’s  _ Miroirs _ suite, featuring, on piano, this year’s Solo Festival champion, Phil Lester. Please enjoy.”

Dan rolls his eyes as the soloist draws the bench nearer to the piano, as he rights the collar of his concert-standard tuxedo. He seems to be barely older than him, perhaps in his early twenties, youngish— but from the confidence written into his features, it's not hard to tell that he’s a performer, and a seasoned one at that.

Dan’s had his fair share of experience with seasoned pianists, a key one of whom being his old, grouchy teacher from when he was around twelve or thirteen. The experience she had given him was one that he'd never forget despite his greatest efforts, an experience of the most hardcore music education thought possible, of snobs of a different class than he had previously known, and of a teacher that didn't know when to stop, didn't know what was  _ too _ much. If the soloist is anything like that, Dan already dislikes him.

But then the soloist plays the first note, and everything changes.

The first note is not one but a hundred, a thousand perhaps. It surrounds him and he embraces it, eyes on the soloist’s fingers as they perform their routine. He can’t describe how it sounds. The flowing of water over stones, maybe, melancholy and moving. Or perhaps the delicate air of a harp. He doesn't know. Dan’s never seen his old piano teacher perform like this.

As the melody shifts from the melancholy stream to the call of a lone bird to the jolly song of a clown, he loses himself in thought. How the music grows and changes, breathes and quavers with a life of its own. It's mesmerizing. He's lost.

And the soloist… what’s his name? Louis? Lawrence? Lampton? He’s thrown himself to the music, made himself vulnerable. His back arches and falls like a sail in the wind, moving with the sound. The bird’s call of the second movement draws him from the sleepy melancholy of the first into a quiet alertness, and then into a jaunty bounce with the third movement. His pale face twists and relaxes, entirely absorbed by the sound produced by his fingers. 

If Dan were to say that the thought only surfaced once or twice, it would be a lie.   
  


“Mum, I want to learn to play the piano.”

His mother’s thin penciled eyebrows skyrocket. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Dan says, decisively. “And I want that man to teach me.” He vaguely gestures towards the soloist.

“Are you sure? It’ll be expensive.” She looks skeptical. Dan doesn't blame her, honestly. It wouldn’t be the first time that he would pick up a hobby and drop it two months later.

“Mum, I’m nineteen,” he assures. “I can help pay for it if you want!” His eyes widen a little, begging. He doesn't mean it, a little bit. He's nineteen and mostly, his greatest desires include the newest Fall Out Boy album or something along that vein and Fall Out Boy definitely did  _not_ play classical music on their discography at any point. Still, he's nineteen, and he's impulsive, so whatever. Right now, he wants to play piano.

The look of skepticism wavers a little, her eyes soften, and he knows he's won. “Alright,” she says, finally. “You have to stick with it, though. No pulling out after two months.”

“Done.”

She stares at him for a moment. Her face then breaks into a huge smile, and her arms into a huge, proud embrace. In the theatre lobby. But whatever.

Dan’s happy. Or satisfied, anyway.

 

***

 

_ Dr. Phil Lester is an acclaimed professional concert pianist, having graced stages as close as Manchester and as far as Beijing and Los Angeles. He majored in piano performance by age nineteen at the Royal College of Music, received his Masters’ Degree in music theory from the Juilliard School in New York, and later his doctorate in piano performance from the Royal Academy of Music. Today, Dr. Lester is twenty-two, and is a frequent performer with orchestras such as the Los Angeles Philharmonic, London Symphony, and Berlin Philharmonic Orchestras.  _

_ Dr. Lester recently performed Ravel’s  _ Miroirs  _ Suite for the Manchester Symphony’s Solo Festival competition and won, which is what brought him back to his home stage this past month after a long year of touring worldwide. Now that he is back home, he is resuming business in the piano studio that he runs in the city. The Lester Studio of Piano Music is located in the heart of town and accepts students that are willing to dedicate themselves to the art of piano. With seven teachers and over fifty students, your piano skills are certain to get the nurturing they need— if you're willing to put in the effort yourself. For more information on the Lester Studio, call— _

“Mr. Howell?”

Dan puts down the brochure and rises to his feet, meeting the gaze of the woman that greeted him, the woman that stood straight and poised on what had to be two-inch heels.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Howell, my name is Annie Chaudry. Please follow me.” The red blossom of her mouth moves in a few precise patterns and then there she goes,  _ click-clack _ back down the linoleum hallway.

His fingertips lightly brush the neutral paint on the walls as he passes countless studios, countless rooms filled with various piano-themed paraphernalia and a baby grand of their own. The hallway is alive with the sounds of countless different pieces, muddled by the blockade of soundproof walls. In the foreground, though, is the clicking of Annie’s heels against the floor, and the squeak of Dan’s sneakers blindly following her.

(He passes a trophy case in the walls and pauses at his reflection, flattening his barely-curling hair. Annie doesn't notice, or she pretends not to.)

They enter an office, one with all the essentials. There’s a desk in the middle of the room, two chairs, a lamp, a computer, and a modest upright pushed against the wall. Tacked to the walls are a few dozen posters from what he assumed were concerts in years past.  _ Annie Chaudry, Manchester Symphony. Annie Chaudry, New York Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra. _

Annie takes a seat behind the desk, gesturing towards the empty seat. “Please, have a seat. Dr. Lester will see you shortly. For now, you will have to make do speaking with me.” She smiles dryly, and gestures to three steaming cups placed on her desk. “Tea?”

Dan grunts assent.

“Alright, Mr. Howell.” Her hands folded, she leans forward onto her desk. Her nails glint ruby in the light of her desk lamp. “You say you want to learn piano, mm?”

He nods, just barely, and sips his tea.

She stares at him for a moment, considering.

“Interesting decision, for someone of your age,” Annie muses. “You said you’re nineteen? Gap year?”

“Uh- I- uh, yeah,” Dan stammers. “I’ve done a bit of piano before, so you don’t need to put me in the beginners’ class.”

Annie’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah, a little bit of private teaching when I was about twelve. I also have perfect pitch, according to my music teacher from high school, so you don’t-”

“Hold that thought.” She glances at the clock. “Yeah, it’s 4:30. Phi— Dr. Lester will be getting out of his last lesson now. Stay here, I’ll bring him. And don't touch  _ anything _ . Please.”   
  


Not touching anything is boring.

He had just gone to the piano and tapped out a little bit of  _ Für Elise _ . In any case, they should be impressed. He was playing  _ Beethoven _ . That was an advanced piece.

But then Dr. Lester had entered the room, and Dan’s fingers had frozen.

He’s exactly as Dan remembers him from the concert, tall and confident, with a shock of black hair and a beaky nose. Now, though, instead of being dressed in full concert attire, he’s chosen to don a checkered button-up and jeans, which make him look less like a world-renowned classical superstar and more like an awkward dad.

Annie, on the other hand, who not look too happy that he had played, has her mouth set in a stern line and her dark eyes ablaze. Dan gulps, apprehensive.

“Mr. Howell.” He looks behind him and Dr. Lester is there, smiling brightly at him with a plastic clipboard in his hands.

“Um. Hi,” Dan mumbles. His fingers, trembling slightly, slide off the keys and into his lap.

“Afternoon, D— can I call you Dan?” His voice is pleasant, and his eyes—  _ wow, blue— _ twinkle slightly. Dan softens a little bit. Surely this man can place him in the advanced class— he’s decent at piano, he can handle it.

He feels like he’s at the doctor’s office— at relative ease but under such intense scrutiny that he can't help but feel a little bit uncomfortable. Dr. Lester’s title and gentle mannerisms really don't help.

“Um. Yeah, sure.” His shrug is barely perceptible.

“Okay.”

Annie folds her arms and leans against the doorframe. “So, Dr. Lester. I was just talking to Dan about the piano he’s done before.  _ Apparently _ , he has perfect pitch.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Lester’s eyebrows raise a little bit, and he looks at Annie. “And who told him this?”

“My music teacher in high school,” Dan piped up, proudly.

“Oh, okay,” Dr. Lester chuckles, and Annie seems to be trying her very best not to laugh. “At least we know it’s a valid source.”

_ Is perfect pitch a bad thing? _ Dan thought. His high school music teacher had always referred to it as a gift, but now he kind of feels like he’s the butt of a joke that he’ll “understand later.”

Annie giggles a little, then sobers quickly. “Dr. Lester, just want to remind you that David is coming in for his lesson at 4:50.”

“Right!” He rises to his feet, chair grunting as he does so. “Dan, I’m going to leave you with Annie while she asks you some questions just to give me a better idea of how to teach you, okay? You’ll get a letter in the mail about the class I’m putting you in next week.”

“Okay.”

Annie retakes the seat across from Dan, clicking her pen and clipping it to her pad of paper.

Dr. Lester strides towards the door, pulls it open, and gives Dan a long, considering look. Softly, he said, “See you in a few weeks, then, Mr. Howell.”

And then he's gone, quickly as he came.   
  


“Can you read sheet music?”

“No. Is that important?”

“And you’ve only ever played one song, and that's  _ Für Elise _ ?”

“Yes. By Beethoven. Is that enough to get into the advanced lessons?”

"Yes, sure, fine. What kind of music do you like?"

"Muse?"

"Okay. _Okay._ "

 

"Dan!" His mother welcomes him when he arrives home that day. "How did it go?

"Amazingly," he replied, giving her a quick peck. "I think I might get into the advanced class."

"You always were a very talented boy," and she pats him on the cheek.

 

***

 

The letter comes in the mail on the same day that Dan had anticipated, eight days after his visit to the Lester Studio. He had raced home as fast as his legs could take him and flung the mailbox open, finding the thin, white envelope and ripping it open in a frenzy. He was ready to go to the advanced class- he was practically burning with anticipation, ready to feel those ivories beneath his fingers. His heart was a bass drum, taking on a crescendo— those were musical terms, right? All the more reason why he deserved that class.

Still standing on the curb, his eyes scan the letter, looking for that information.  _Pleasure to see you, thank you for trying out, blah, blah, blah—_

And then.

There.

“ _ After our careful consideration, Dr. Lester has found it best to place you in: _

_ Beginner’s Piano _

_ Annie Chaudry.” _


	2. oiseaux tristes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first few lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to ricardo viñes, _[oiseaux tristes](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=trN06fsSRdM)_ represents a lone bird whistling a sad tune, after which others join in. the rambunctious middle section is offset by a solemn cadenza which brings back the melancholy mood of the beginning.

_"After our careful consideration, Dr. Lester has found it best to place you in:_

_Beginner’s Piano_

_Annie Chaudry.”_

 

The next few weeks are a moody blur.

His resting face goes back to its usual frown. He locks himself in his room, listening to old Muse CDs and lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His default response becomes a groan.

_Matt Bellamy can play the piano_ , he ponders. _So why can't I?_

He doesn't know if he's angry at himself or at the piano studio. Perhaps they weren't impressed by his _Für Elise_. It was probably the piano on which he played it that gave off that impression. He deserved a good piano, honestly.

Whenever he happens to pass the creaky upright, he only shoots it a dirty look, continuing back to his room in his black fleece pajamas that he'd never bothered to change out of.

The piano, of course, continues gathering dust in his living room, and only brings itself further out of tune.

He doesn't care; he's apparently not a _real_ pianist, anyway.

 

Twenty-one dreary days pass, dragging him to the very end of his rope. And then. And then.

The dreaded day arrives.

 

“Mr. Howell,” Annie Chaudry greets him, livelily, when he walks into her studio.

Dan grunts in reply.

“I’m so happy to be teaching you, it’s been so long since I’ve had a student.” Her hair is up in a ponytail today, and her heels are only slightly less extravagant. Those are the only differences from when he last saw her. Huh.

“So, Dan,” and she gracefully slides into her seat next to the piano bench. “Today, we’re going to be just going over the basics to get you oriented, but first we’re going to give you some repertoire.”

“Okay.” _And repertoire is…?_

“Alright. So you said that you like mostly classical music?” She's holding an assortment of large books, each merely a centimetre or two in thickness. “Any specific composers?”

“Beethoven,” he says, automatically. Dan knows two composers: Mozart and Beethoven. _Für Elise_ is Beethoven. Some Beethoven pieces have the potential of being boring. Mozart is _definitely_ boring, all of it.

He just wishes… He wishes he had gotten into the advanced class. Then, maybe he could choose from a larger variety of composers.

“Okay. I’m going to give you some pieces, fairly easy level, you tell me what you think. None of these are original score, mind, just arrangements— you’re not quite ready for the real stuff yet.” _Oh_.

Annie takes a seat on the bench and opens the first book, which reads _Piano for the Older Beginner_ in large green letters on the cover.

_Minuet in G_ is simple, light, airy. It’s playful, childish, and a bit bouncy.

He doesn't like it, really.

The other pieces follow a similar trend, and before he knows it, there are only five minutes left in his first lesson.

( _Is this_ real _piano?_ he wonders. Annie plays everything effortlessly, as if it’s second nature to her. Her fingers seem to square-dance over the keys, hopping and twirling and sliding, carefree but strictly disciplined. Surely _real_ piano can’t possibly be _this_ easy.)

How can he possibly get from the stage he’s at now, to where she is? He can't even read music. His head is already pounding with all the strange dots and lines on the pages. Where _can_ he go from here?

“So which do you pick, Dan?” She’s smiling at him, without a trace of Cheshire-mocking, genuine and encouraging and oddly warm. “Personally, I think the _Minuet_ suits you the most, it’s a real classic, but whichever.”

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” he says faintly, and he takes the green book.

Annie grins at him. “Great. Take a look at these. We can talk about theory next week.”

 

He dusts off his piano that week and opens it.

When he plays a note, his perfect pitch tells him it’s a C sharp. He congratulates himself. _Perfect pitch might not be so useless after all!_

However, when he looks up the notes on the keyboard, Google tells him that it’s an A.

All he's found out is that his piano is gravely out of tune.

And he doesn't know how to fix it.

 

Piano theory is… complicated.

It makes his head hurt more than it already did, and he absolutely can't understand it. Annie’s explaining it like she knows it as well as the back of her thin, long-fingered hand, and she probably does; for a pianist as young as her to be as good as she is, she'd have to have been playing since the tender age of three or four.

The way she explains it is as _values_ and _pitches_ , the latter of which he can kind of understand. His perfect pitch allows him to understand notes as abstract sounds, but not as numerical ideas. When she explained _key signature_ he was lost. _Do re mi_ is simple for Dan, but _tonic, dominant,_ and _subdominant_ just sound like sex terminology and he can't make head nor tail of it.

And beats? _Time signature_? _Quarter_? _Half_? _Eighth_? _All_ that is just a gigantic _what the fuck_ for him.

“Any questions?” She asks, finally.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, go ahead,” she says patiently, leaning back.

“First of all, what the fuck does any of this mean, and how will it help me?” She opens her mouth to answer, but he cuts her off. “Second of all, why are you being so nice to me? When I came last time you were like, icy to me, and now you're so compassionate and kind all of a sudden? Why? And also, if all this shit is so simple, why aren't I allowed in the advanced class?” His voice has reached a tipping point now. The dam is flowing freely, three weeks of bottled up incredulity and anger spilling freely all over the piano keys. He's angry at her, angry beyond belief at her stupid concert posters and her stupid theory lessons. Angry at her _stupid_ studio letters and brochures and high heels and ponytail and manicured nails. Angry at her _stupid_ old yet impeccably in tune upright piano, at her— at her—

She takes a deep, carefully controlled breath. “To answer your first question. All this information is, musically, probably the most important stuff you'll ever know. We haven't even gotten to technique yet. Also, Dan… You take your perfect pitch for granted. Seriously. It won't always solve everything, you know. As a matter of fact, when you're studying piano, it’s almost useless except as a party trick. I’m being nice to you because of how little you _actually_ know versus how _much_ you _think_ you know. If you think your perfect pitch is the solution to all your problems, you’re wrong, Dan.” Her voice is trembling slightly, trying not to break. “You should try walking in my shoes for once. As a professional concert pianist, every day I rely on this stuff as well as the technique and finesse that I put into my playing. Want to know why I haven't let you play anything yet? It’s because, if I did, you would feel like you’re already great when you're _not_ , Dan. You think that you have nothing to learn. You're here to be flashy and to look impressive. I know your type. If you think you can survive the advanced lessons, go right ahead. I’m not going to try and stop you. ‘Least I won't have to deal with you. Dr. Lester can hammer you into shape.”

“And with that said, Annie,” says a familiar voice, “I’d be glad to take him.”

Dan turns, rapidly. Leaning on the doorframe, in all his black-haired blue-eyed hot-concert-pianist glory, stands Dr. Phil Lester, smiling dryly.

“Dan, next week you're with me,” he says welcomingly, and shoots Annie a look that Dan can't quite decipher.

Either way, he's happy. And, as always, totally, _completely_ unprepared.

**Author's Note:**

> u made it this far even despite the weird antidannieisms congrats  
> bleas leave comments i will luv u forever  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/jakfruut)


End file.
